Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 8

THE KISS

                                 THE KISS                                                 BY ROY L. PICKERING JR.


     Packing is thirsty business, even when gathering up nothing but the bare essentials, so I stand in the light supplied by my refrigerator and take a swig of soda from the bottle.  This is a childhood habit that I did not or would not outgrow no matter how frequently my wife nagged me to get a cup, to set a better example for our children.  She never has understood that when drinking, I am making no attempt to be a role model.  I’m simply quenching my thirst.
     It is a few minutes past midnight and my house is silent and near pitch dark.  I am frequently awake at this hour, usually not by choice, but due to my body’s frustrating rebellion against sleep.  This situation has worsened considerably in the past few months, probably because I’ve had much on my mind, and troubles do not give respite just because eyes have been closed.  Tonight however, I fully intended to be awake at this late hour.  There is a purpose to my current night crawling.
     As I drain the bottle of ginger ale, I am reminded of an  evening in the distant past.  I was in my first year of high school at the time, and the occasion was my school’s freshman dance.  The cafeteria was serving as dance hall, and the majority of my classmates were exhibiting their best moves in rhythm with the blaring music.  As for me, I was stationed by the punch bowl, snacking on potato chips and downing one glass of punch after another.  Throughout my mindless snacking my gaze remained steady. The object of my observation, admiration, dedication and desperation was Erica Murphy.  I was absolutely crazy about her, had been since the first time I laid eyes on her, and had no idea what to do about it. 
     She was dancing with her boyfriend, a guy who I would have disliked on general principle based on his personality, but the fact that he had claimed the girl who had claimed my heart cemented the deal.   A slow song came on and Mark got to pull Erica closer and hold her swaying body in his arms.  This was more than I was willing to take.  I would not allow my solitude to be taunted any longer.  I would not allow my passion to be made a mockery of.  Plus, I had to pee.  
     I headed to the bathroom.  Once my business there was taken care of, I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror.  I wasn't bad looking.  A few pimples, but no major damage.  If only I wasn't so shy.  If only I had met Erica before Mark.  But "if only" was too depressing a concept for me to deal with.  "If only" never got you anywhere.  It never got anything done.  You either accepted what you were and where you were at, or else you went and changed it.  I chose the former and decided to go home.
     As I was leaving, who should come walking my way but Erica.
     "Hi, Denis."
     "Hi, Erica.  What are you doing out here?"
     "Going to the bathroom."
     "Of course.  So, uh, are you enjoying the dance?"
     "Yeah, it's okay."
     I was quickly running out of small talk.  My heart was beating furiously.  I sensed an opportunity, but for what I wasn’t quite sure.  "The music's pretty good."
     "Yeah, it's okay," she responded.  A few more seconds of torturous silence passed.  I couldn't think of anything else menial to say.  "Well, see you later," Erica said as she headed towards the girls room.
     "Wait a minute."  I noticed that I had grabbed hold of her arm, but I had no idea why I was stopping her.  Then suddenly I did.  I took a step forward, closed my eyes, and kissed her. 
     No dictionary contains the right words to define the sensation of that moment.  Never before had I felt so alive.  My imagination had failed to warn me that her lips would be so soft and sweet.
     "Denis, I ..."
     "Yeah, I know," I said, cutting her off.  I didn't want the magic to be tainted by an "I like you, but as a friend" speech.  I was perfectly content with my initiation into manhood.  And though I had not been transformed into an expert on the ways of women, something about that kiss told me she had wanted it as much as I.
     Time has a way of sneaking by at a pace that would make you nauseous if you were conscious of the speed.  Somehow, some way, twelve years have passed between then and now.  Yet it's crystal clear in my mind, no detail forgotten.  I've gained much since that night when I lost a little of my innocence with Erica Murphy. A diploma, a marriage certificate, kids, career, house. Sometimes I wonder if it was a fair trade.
     I guess I'm done packing now.  Strolling down memory lane has made me hungry, as has the open refrigerator door.  Maybe I should make myself a sandwich for the road.  No, I'm just delaying the inevitable.  I've spent too much time thinking this over.  I thought of every possible reason not to do it, and none were good enough.
     I leave the kitchen and quietly enter the bedroom of my two children, Krystal and Tyler.  It's hard to believe sometimes that I'm half responsible for creating anything this precious.  I fear they will hate me.  If they don't on instinct, my wife will make certain they learn.  Not that I'll blame her.  I'm going to have to take the heat on this one.  No way I squeeze out smelling like a rose.
     I grew up on westerns, so am no stranger to the good guy/bad guy motif.  Every story has to have one of each, and nobody has any problem telling them apart, on account of their hats.  The good guy has it all.  The townspeople adore him, for he's come to save their little world.  He has no guilt complex to contend with, no inner demons to fight, because he has strength of conviction.  That is, he's always sure he's right because right is all he knows.  With such dedication to justice, not to mention a perfect profile, of course he always gets the glory and the girl.  Not a bad job.  But you have to wonder how difficult it is to keep that hat so white.  How much does he have to sacrifice? 
     After eight years of playing the role; loving husband, dutiful father, church going - tax paying - hard working community pillar, I decided to switch hats.  I'm giving up my good guy perks for the piece of my soul I pawned away, and a hat much easier to keep clean.
     Looking at my kids is almost enough to do it.  I'm just about willing to slip back into my marital bed and continue with the facade.  This won't be easy for them.  They won't understand.  From their point of view, hell from everybody's viewpoint, what we had seemed fine.  People have spouses who cheat on them, or abuse them, or commit any number of matrimonial atrocities.  Not so in our case.  Our lives were a Norman Rockwell painting with one invisible flaw.  Somewhere along the line I fell out of love with my wife, and she responded in kind.
     How did it happen?  If I could, I would make a concise declaration illuminating beyond the shadow of a doubt the specific reason for the downfall of our marriage.  No can do.  There was no climactic episode, but rather, a steady progression of moments, infinitesimal on their own, each serving to further widen the rift that had formed between us.
     I fell in love with my wife in one fell swoop.  I fell out of it slowly, steadily, by degrees.  I realized it had happened when I couldn't smile for a picture.  You choose to spend your life with someone because that person makes you happy.  I was all out of happy.  And after trying for a few years to figure out where it had gone and how to get it back, I reached the conclusion I had suspected all along.  It wasn't coming back, and I didn't want to live this way anymore.  
     I cautiously enter the other occupied bedroom in my house.  There she goes, my wife of eight years.  On insomniac nights I have spent countless hours watching her sleep.  But never like this.  Never standing in the doorway with a knapsack wrapped around my shoulder, saying goodbye in secret.  It feels cowardly, but what good would a big teary scene do?  Like any sane man, when I die I want to go in my sleep.  I'm a firm believer in silent exits.
     I walk to my wife's side of the bed and memorize her expression in slumber.  If it's going to haunt me, I might as well get it right.  She's still so beautiful.  As beautiful as when I first kissed her.  I had been right.  She did want it as much as I. It took all of a fourteen year old boy's courage to snatch that first kiss, and another two years romantic labor to earn a second. A long time by some people's standards.  But to me it seemed a worthwhile venture, and time was a commodity I possessed in abundance.
     Without hardly being conscious of doing it, I lean over and kiss her softly.  Her eyes flutter, then snap open.  Her gaze locks onto mine for a moment.  Then her eyes wander over me until something makes them come to a stop.  She has spotted my knapsack.  "Erica, I ..."
     "Yes, I know", she says, giving me grace to skip the speech I don't have it in me to utter, and she can do without hearing.  What can we say in one night that we haven't said in eight years? We've run out of words, out of steam, out of time.  It's almost funny that I had worried about a tumultuous farewell.  The air has been leaking out of our balloon for years, so how could we possibly go out with a bang?
     Erica can afford to be silent.  Everyone will automatically take her side.  Nobody roots for a deserter.  It will be apparent who the bad guy is, so she knows she can save her breath.  In my defense I could explain that I did not terminate our marriage by running away, because you can't kill what's already dead. But what would be the point?  Once you've been seen wearing that black hat, it's yours forever.
     Life seemed perfect on that once upon a time night, standing outside the boys bathroom with my body on fire and heart on a string.  My first kiss almost lasted forever, but not quite.  I guess sometimes not even your destiny is the one.
     There is nothing left to do but turn and leave.  It ended a long time ago.  It just took me a while to follow our love out the door.  No one will believe me, but this is the most necessary thing I've ever done. 
     Still, I am torn apart inside.  She was after all, my first love.  This woman provided the two most potent memories of my life. The first time I ever kissed her...and the last.

pic.twitter.com/aFFHARiYB6— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) December 12, 2018

THE CASE FOR BOOK REVIEWS

If payment for novels was based on the amount of hours they take to write, or the amount of effort authors puts into them, or the amount of skill required to immerse strangers into an imagined world, a single book would cost thousands of dollars. Tens of thousands even. Great books would make it into the hundreds of thousands and masterpieces considered among the best of all time would have price tags in the millions. But since price is mostly based on the amount of paper and ink required to print a book (I'll stay away from the topic of e-book pricing) with a little extra thrown in to turn a small profit, readers of every novel ever purchased get an incredible bargain. Therefore the very least readers can do to pay authors their due is take a minute to give the book they just enjoyed a star rating and jot down a few words letting others know why they recommend it. It's not as if people aren't in the habit of giving opinions these days. Yelp reviews for a restaurant they went to or a hotel they stayed at are commonplace undertakings. People routinely hop on facebook or Twitter to praise or vent about one thing or another, not because anyone asked, but because the internet has provided us with an infinite Comments box to express how we feel about everything under the sun. So please don't be shy when it comes to telling the world how you felt about the latest book you read. Word of mouth is lifeblood for authors. If enough good things are said about their last book, they just may muster up what it takes to write another. Regardless of where you choose to do it (my favorite places for exhibiting book reviews in addition to this blog are Amazon and goodreads and most recently - my Instagram page), most especially when you loved a book, broadcast it to everyone who happens to stumble upon your words of praise. It won't cost you a penny, but trust me, what you have to say is invaluable.

There is A LOT going on in this novel that I admittedly found to be a challenging read. Much of it takes place in Jamaica where perhaps you have visited on vacation, but this is certainly no "beach read". It is told from the vantage point of multiple characters, each of them telling their own story, each of the stories related to the build up to a failed attempt on the life of Bob Marley and the aftermath. It took quite a while for me to get through this book, and I confess to considering stopping once or twice. The use of Jamaican dialect for many of the characters was a small part of the challenge. A bigger part were the chapters (fortunately not too many of them) written in stream of consciousness never ending sentence format. Yet even as I struggled to keep my reading momentum going, there was something gripping about the narrative that had me hooked. The book eventually leaves Jamaica behind and moves to New York during the enchanting crack epidemic years. I found the latter portion easier reading, perhaps because I grew up in the Bronx and have familiarity with the setting. Before coming to the Bronx I lived on a Caribbean island, not Jamaica but St. Thomas. And of course I'm a huge Bob Marley fan because I can't understand how anyone could not be. So there are quite a few elements to this story that had me looking forward to reading it, and even though it was a tougher than anticipated read, I'm glad I stuck with it because Marlon James' talent is undeniable. Every one of the characters rings true during their moments as the focus of the story. The style in which it is written, feeling like a long series of somewhat connected scenes, almost like a short story collection rather than a novel, was an author choice that I know impressed some people (since it won a Booker Award) but probably put off a fair number of readers as well. This is not a book that you casually invest some time in. It's a major literary commitment with a generous pay off. Reading much of it while listening to Bob Marley's music is not a requirement, just my personal recommendation. #bookreview #bookstagram #blackauthors #bibliophileA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Aug 19, 2018 at 7:16pm PDT

I love John Irving. I kept waiting for this novel to get better and less odd as it went along. Not that odd is bad, and Mr. Irving is the master of making readers fall in love with peculiar characters, even kids who seem overly obsessed with statues of legendary religious virgins such as Mary rather than normal kid interests. But as I read this novel (which has a wonderful title) I got the feeling that he simply felt like writing about writing, and aging, and dying, and religion/Catholicism, and homophobia, and sex. All things he has written profoundly about before, but in more intriguing and plot driven ways. He delves into miracles and ghosts/angels to a greater extent in Avenue of Mysteries than most of his earlier novels, though miracles are also nothing new to the prose of John Irving. The fact of the matter is, there are many familiar elements recognizable to readers of his earlier work in this book, and the author's easy to read and digest style is as John Irvingesque as ever, more or less. But at his best John Irving writes novels that I fall madly in love with, and that simply wasn't the case with this one. Something was missing, or perhaps too much of something usually restrained was present. He is still and always will be one of my literary heroes and favorite authors, but if you've never read a John Irving novel, I do not advise starting with this one. #bookreview #bookstagram #bibliophileA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on May 18, 2018 at 5:31pm PDT

Water for Elephants is the story of a man in his nineties living in a nursing home who thinks back on his days spent working as a veterinarian in a traveling circus. The setting jumps back and forth from Jacob being a young man on a train with a bunch of circus folk to being an old man dealing with the erosion of his body and mind. Most of the book is dedicated to his circus days and how he ends up with the woman who would become his wife. These sections are where most of the action takes place. In the present it doesn't get more dramatic than Jacob being cranky about nursing home life, him becoming disoriented sometimes, and family members forgetting to visit him on the one day when a circus happens to be nearby. Yet I found the writing to be more engaging in quiet scenes set in the present where nothing much took place than the portions dealing with circus life. Plenty of elements are in place for intriguing storytelling. We have a circus owner with a complex over not being the Ringling Brothers Circus who is willing to cut losses of human lives if that's what it takes to keep the show going on. There is the paranoid schizophrenic boss who switches from charming to psychotic on a dime. His beautiful headline act wife whom Jacob can not stop thinking about. Also aboard the train are performers, some more freakish than others, and animals, some more dangerous than others, that are in Jacob's care. The scenes taking place during Jacob's youth felt rushed to me. It was as if the author wanted to include as many eventful happenings during this period as could be crammed in, but she dwells on none of them for long because it's already time to move on to the next one. Everybody seemed to be a character sketch of a personality type rather than a fully fleshed out human being. The lone exception is Jacob, but only because the book focuses on him in his senior years along with his adventurous youthful days, giving us a little more time to learn what makes him tick. Water for Elephants is an easy read that covers some interesting territory, but it fell short of being the greatest show on earth. I wouldn't be surprised if I enjoy the movie more. #bookreview #bookstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Apr 9, 2018 at 12:11pm PDT

Extraordinary. This book won a Pulitzer Prize for good reason. The plot is deceptively simple, though the narrative is laid out in intricate and inventive fashion. A young German orphan boy is handy at mechanical fidgeting, including the self taught ability to fix just about any radio and pick up whatever transmissions are able to reach him. One such transmission that gets to Werner and his sister Jutta comes from France, sent by the great uncle of a blind girl that it is his destiny to one day meet. A great deal takes place between Werner hearing the broadcasts of Marie-Laure's great uncle and finally crossing paths with her. That great deal is World War II. Due to his talent, Werner lands in an academy that trains German boys to become German soldiers. Since the alternative is working in the mines, and since the school is a much more likely place for his abilities to be expanded and lead him to a better life than would unthinking manual labor, the school seems to be a superior path for Werner, allowing him to escape the standard trajectory for someone raised in an orphanage. Even though it means leaving his sister behind. But when your country is waging a war against the world that it is destined to lose, there is no straightforward path to success and happiness, only orders to put on a uniform, pick up a weapon, and fight for Hitler's warped vision. As for Marie-Laure, who is taught to handle herself in perpetual darkness as well as can be done by her doting father, she ends up in the home of her great uncle and his top secret radio transmitter in a small French town on the sea. Eventually she is separated from her father when he is taken prisoner, but left behind with her is an invaluable gift, a rare gem removed from the museum he worked in to keep it safe from treasure seeking Nazis. There is one in particular who is determined to find it, though not so much for its monetary worth as for its rumored magical properties. It is a gift that Marie-Laure is unaware is in her possession until finally figuring out clues sent by her father that lead to its discovery. The book's point of view jumps back and forth... (Read full #bookreview at GoodReads) #bookstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Mar 1, 2018 at 8:20pm PST

Brilliant satire or biting social commentary delivered with excessively over the top weirdness? After reading this book I learned that the author started out as a spoken word poet who launched his career by killing it at Nuyorican Poets Cafe. No surprise given the style of Beatty's prose. Nearly every sentence is a rambling, poetic, rapid fire joke with multiple punch lines delivered. The Sellout is definitely a novel that seems written to be listened to as much if not more than it was written to be read silently to yourself. The plot involves a black man who was home schooled by his social scientist father, with every lesson being about racial identity. After his father is murdered by cops, the son inherits the family farm along with acquiring settlement money. He resides in a California town that has literally been erased from the map. So in addition to providing his neighbors with incredible fruit, stellar weed, and crisis counseling in times of mental emergencies, the narrator is also on a mission to earn back recognition that his hometown is still there. A man named Hominy (who happens to be the last living cast member of the Little Rascals) insists on being the narrator's slave. Yes you read that right, and no I don't have an explanation for motive beyond this book is satirical with every line meant to be taken with a grain, or perhaps a boulder, of salt. The narrator attempts to bring racial segregation back to his town, starting with a city bus. Bizarre stuff indeed. Beatty hits readers with every cultural reference under the sun along the way as he examines obsession with race. I enjoyed this book, yet reached a point where I was mainly reading to accomplish the feat of finishing what had been started. I suppose I prefer my satire in shorter doses. I suppose that as much as I love expertly delivered, thought provoking spoken word poetry, I look forward to a different form of artistic experience when reading a novel. Regardless of whether or not I read another Paul Beatty book, I'd love to listen to him read his work or just talk about whatever comes to mind. #bookreview #bookstagram #booknerd #bookworm #bibliophile #reader #IGbooksA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Jan 30, 2018 at 7:37am PST

Exceptional novel. Brit Bennett writes with a steady hand as she immerses us into the minds and lives of three people. Nadia and Aubrey are the best of friends. Luke is the man they both love, at different times as well as simultaneously. He is the man who would have made a mother out of Nadia had they chosen to parent, and the one who eventually makes a wife and mother of Aubrey. He is the first love of both of them, but choices of course need to be made and not everybody can get a happily ever after out of such a situation. Or maybe not anyone. Luke's mother is the first lady of the church that plays a prominent role in the lives of all characters in this book. To varying degrees, her son and the women who love him succeed and fail at obtaining her approval. Nadia and Aubrey are both abandoned and motherless. Aubrey's mother chooses an awful man over being in the lives of her daughters. Yet Aubrey proves to be the character who is the best at maintaining loyalty, possessing an innocence that remains untouched no matter how ill she is treated. Nadia's mother chooses the release of death, and in so doing fills her daughter with undeserved guilt and a restless soul, forever on the look-out for whatever clues and remembrances may have been left behind. Both girls are haunted to womanhood by maternal abandonment. Nadia at least still has a father willing to be there for her, but the hurt caused by her mother's unexplained suicide pushes her away from those who love her. And so she is not a particularly dutiful daughter. And after both her child and relationship with Luke are aborted, relationships with the men who follow are destined to fail. But it is Nadia's betrayal of Aubrey that is at the heart of this novel. The mothers in Bennett's novel do the best they can, are hurt and betrayed by callous men and by each other, and some of them manage to persevere while others do not. I was very much absorbed by this book, in part because it examines central themes that I dive into in my novel Matters of Convenience, in much larger part because it is a wonderfully written book by an author who is off to anA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Oct 29, 2017 at 9:46am PDT

Interesting book that made for a quick read. It is filled with Mat Johson's trademark humor regardless of the seriousness of topic at hand. The plot revolves around a recently fired African American Literature professor. Why was he fired? Because his primary focus was on examining a novel by Edgar Allan Poe, the only full length novel written by the brilliant but definitely not African American author. The name of the book is The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. I had never heard of Poe's lone novel before reading Johnson's Pym. The narrator studies and teaches this book to his detriment because he believes it holds the key to understanding White-Black race relations. After being fired, the professor and his also unemployed best friend (who has his own obsession with a painter of landscapes, specifically, with finding the precise physical vantage point that each of his paintings are based on) end up on a quest that takes them along with the narrator's cousin and ex-girlfriend and her current husband among others to Antarctica. It is on this frozen terrain that they discover a lost race of creatures representing Whiteness. This means its opposite, a tropical island representing Blackness that Poe also wrote about in his novel, is possibly out there as well. When the world as we know it seemingly comes to an end, the narrator and his motley crew perhaps being the lone survivors of Armageddon only to have become slaves of the primitive creatures in Antarctica, the search is on for whatever paradises (whether man-made or otherwise) may still exist. That's about as well as I can describe Pym's quirky plot. Best to read this enjoyable book for yourself.A post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Oct 29, 2017 at 9:40am PDT

Audrey has everything going for her. She has a great job, good friends and impeccable taste. She’s been unlucky in love, but that’s okay because she’s focused on her career and a possible promotion. Her best friend, Marshall, provides the male shoulder she needs to lean on occasionally, so she has male company, it’s just platonic. It’s undeniable that Marshall is in love with Audrey. They tried dating years ago, but where he felt flames, she barely felt a flicker. Marshall has comfortably settled into the friend zone while he watches Audrey date other men, believing that one day she’ll realize that he’s the only constant in her life and should be the man in her life. James has played the fields for years. As his friends move into steady relationships, marriage and kids, he’s content to date several women. A BMW (black man working) in New York certainly has his pick of women and he takes full advantage of it. When James meets Audrey, he’s immediately taken with her and theirs is almost a story book romance, but almost doesn’t count. Pickering could have taken the easy route and given readers their happily ever after and wrapped the story up with a nice bow, but nope. He explores what happens if there’s no happily ever after and it’s a bumpy but enjoyable ride. Pickering’s characters are interesting and he uses them well. I found myself rooting for James and Audrey, of course, but I also wanted Marshall, Sarah and others to find their happy endings. A true sign of a good book and characters is that they stay with you after you’ve finished the book and these characters did. #bookreview excerpt for #MattersOfConvenience by Read in Colour. #bookstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Sep 2, 2018 at 6:46am PDT

Pickering’s talent is astonishing and ignores every precedent. – Alvah’s Books Pickering’s love for his characters makes us empathize with all of their plights. – Five Borough Books Pickering’s writing style will cause readers to empathize with the characters’ actions, no matter how wrong. – RAWSISTAZ Reviewers The plot kept smashing my soul into pieces. – Books and Wine Pickering’s writing is beautiful and poignant, causing the reader to become one with the characters, feeling their pain, their anger, and their hurt. – A Book Vacation "Patches of Grey” is a deeply complex tale with authentic characters whose personalities are strong and well developed. Mr. Pickering writes with a voice strong enough to one day propel him into the category with the likes of other great Novelists such as: Richard Wright [Native Son, Black Boy], Ralph Ellison [Invisible Man], and John A. Williams [The Man Who Cried I AM]. - Dianne Rosena Jones Roy L. Pickering, Jr. deftly weaves a coming of age tale. – Reads for Pleasure Patches of Grey is a story that will appeal to all audiences and make for great discussion between parents and their young adults, students and book clubs. – Precision Reviews Pickering’s talent is fluid and crisp. There’s a certain clarity to the prose that’s considered and well judged – just enough to paint the picture and more than enough to drive along the narrative. – Unheard Words ...a must read! This recently honored B.R.A.G.Medallion book is one you will be glad you picked! - IndieBrag #bookreview #bookstagram #PatchesOfGrey #RoyPickering #authorsofinstagram ##BookAndBarbecueA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Sep 3, 2018 at 4:27pm PDT

Got my #SwellBottle collection done up #OutOfPrint style and all is right with the world. #bookstagram #PatchesOfGrey #MattersOfConvenience #RoyPickering #authorsofinstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Sep 1, 2018 at 8:58am PDT

RANDOM

I can't think of a specific topic I wish to write a blog post about. 2018 has been a trying year that I believe has temporarily sapped my creativity. But still, no matter how tough the going gets I will always remember to stop and smell the roses...or whatever flowers happen to be around. Things are looking up again after some scary revelations and I'm certain that creative juices will flow again soon enough. Until then, here's a little of this and a bit of that for your contemplation and enjoyment.

The race is on. pic.twitter.com/op9PvbdMX5— W (@WWarped) May 30, 2018

When Art comes alive pic.twitter.com/gaAAeq3hpX— Kengarex (@kengarex) June 4, 2018

#FilmStruck4 hashtag caused me to ponder which movies I found to be most impactful out of many great contenders.

#FilmStruck4 pic.twitter.com/deePng8cR8— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) April 19, 2018

You know who continues to be a colossal embarrassment.

Just the President of the United States saluting a North Korean general. Cool cool cool. pic.twitter.com/L5t94EKzkf— Parker Molloy (@ParkerMolloy) June 14, 2018

I love this picture of two true heroes.

Em: Turn your cap around
Me: Why
Em: Because it’s cool. Me: Ok

STARTING OVER FROM SCRATCH

#Print books and #Vinyl records will never go away no matter how much the world modernizes. Call me old fashioned but that's just the way I like it and will proudly proclaim with hashtags on social media sites like Instagram. #MattersOfConvenience is the book and Stevie Wonder's Musiquarium is what's spinning because old head music also never goes out of style. #bookstagramA post shared by Roy Pickering (@roylpickering_author) on Jun 18, 2018 at 2:11pm PDT

At some point in your life, probably at multiple points, you will find yourself needing to start over from scratch. It may in your control because the moment was reached by a decision you made to change things. I will lose 50 pounds. I will embark on a new career. I will end this marriage. Or it may be on account of circumstances beyond your control that needed to be adapted to and dealt with. I can't believe they downsized me. I was not prepared to wrestle with this illness. I never expected that s/he would leave me.

Regardless of how you reached the moment, what ultimately matters is how you move forward from it. The starting line of a marathon can be an intimidating place to be, but once you've hit your stride it ceases to matter much how much longer you still have to go. You're on your way and appreciating the journey that you know will get you to the desired destination. You will be healthy/employed/mentally and physically sound/ in love/ happy again. You're well on your way and no matter how slow time may seem to pass at times, somehow it still manages to go by in the blink of an eye. What looked impossible yesterday seems achievable today and tomorrow is proudly looked back upon as an accomplishment.

Of no importance to anyone else in the world but myself, in recent days I have become enamored with the idea of starting over from scratch musically. The reason for this is that to my great surprise, vinyl, which somehow had managed not to go away completely [unlike printed books which I intuitively KNEW would and could not be vanquished by e-readers, I figured record albums didn't stand a chance against audio files], was making an improbable comeback. Suddenly it seemed that everywhere I turned I was once again seeing turntables and records. Not too many 45's yet but plenty of 33-1/3's.





When I spotted a turntable in a second hand shop a few weeks back I could not resist buying it. I was ready to make my musical comeback and return to the world of record albums and the large, artistic covers they come packaged in. Never mind that these days if I want to hear a song, just about any song, I just need to call out "Alexa, play ____" and music magically appears. Chalk it up to the nostalgia that accompanies aging beyond a certain date in your life's calendar, or perhaps some other less understandable but equally pressing reason is the culprit.

Unfortunately the used turntable I bought did little more than turn. When it came to generating music, it was a total dud. But as fate would have it, Father's Day was right around the corner and my awesome wife gifted me with a new one. I was back in business!

In between turntables I took a trip to Barnes & Noble (still around, no longer the bully on the book block but a treasured provider, still selling print books along with record albums as their latest product addition) and re-started my record collection. All of the records purchased the first time around are gone baby gone. Either I threw my original acquisitions away as records gave way to CD's gave way to audio files, or else they're stored in one of the many boxes in my attic that I don't feel like combing through. Now that once again after all these years I find myself with a functioning turntable, I need to start over from scratch in building a record collection. And unlike the first time around I intend to give a great deal of thought into each purchase, to acquire nothing but classics that I'll never tire of.




What would be my very first phase 2 album purchase? I gave it considerable thought without falling into the trap of overthinking. And it didn't take me long to decide on the masterpiece which would relaunch my album collecting career.


It has been on repeat play since Father's Day but is getting lonely. Time to give Stevie Wonder's Original Musiquarium I some company. I don't know yet what album # 2 of my collection will be, though my head is spinning with ideas. Soon enough the record will be spinning on my turntable, at which point I'll no longer be starting over from scratch. I'll be on the road, taking the journey towards a destination that doesn't much matter what shape it takes. The first step and then the one after that and then the next and the next and the next is what matters. I plan to enjoy every single step and note of the trip.

HAND ME DOWN LIFE - a short story

Hand Me Down Life
By Roy L. Pickering Jr.

            “Why would he do such a thing?”            Austin expected no response to the question.  Evelyn put a hand on his shoulder.  There was little else his wife could do and absolutely nothing she could say that would bring clarity.  The confusion felt by Austin, like the pain, had been selfishly handed down to him by his brother Allen.  Neither gift could be refused.            Downstairs, the humble home of his parents was teeming with mourners.  Rather than mingling amongst them at the wake, Austin had brought Evelyn to the bedroom shared by he and Allen in childhood.  The room appeared much as it did way back when.  Their parents were the nostalgic type and had found no better purpose for the space than to keep it as a sort of museum.             Numerous sports trophies earned by the brothers in high school gleamed from the shelf their father had built to showcase them.  The dates on Allen’s trophies were all three years earlier than the dates on Austin’s.  For every race that Austin finished first in or championship game his team had come out on the winning end of, he was breaking no new ground, but merely duplicating the accomplishments of his big brother.            Turning to face his wife, Austin found himself hurtling through a time warp.  Evelyn was standing in nearly the exact same place as when he laid eyes on her for the first time.  It had been love at initial sighting, in spite of the words of introduction spoken by his brother.            “Austin, this is my girlfriend Eve.  Eve, meet my little brother.”            “Hi,” she said, capturing his heart and imagination with a single syllable.  But Austin put his desire on hold, for he was given little choice.  This was his brother’s girl, and as it would turn out, she remained so for nearly two years.  After their break-up, nine months passed until Austin crossed paths with her again.  Now that she was finally available, he vowed not to let her get away.  Charming her was the easy part.  They already knew their personalities to be a good match.  Mustering the courage to ask Allen if he had a problem with his little brother dating his ex-girlfriend was considerably more difficult.  But once the words were out, Allen simply tousled his air and congratulated him for landing such a great girl.            Austin picked up a photograph taken back when he was six years old, Allen half a foot taller at the age of nine.  The height disparity would be bridged in the following years, though Allen did manage to maintain a half inch advantage.  In the picture, Allen was staring straight ahead at the camera with a look of extreme confidence, as if knowing that he would come out looking great, both in the photo and in life.  Austin was captured in profile, gazing admiringly at his big brother, his mentor, his hero.            Allen wore a red cap, a plaid shirt, and a pair of dungarees.  The outfit was quite familiar to Austin, for these items were among several pieces of clothing that came into his own possession later on.  This was a pattern that would repeat itself throughout their lives.  Allen would acquire something, eventually outgrow it, and then it would be Austin’s turn to walk the same mile in inherited shoes.            Evelyn was looking at a photograph that was hanging on the wall.  It had been taken when the brothers were grown men.  Even as adults, Austin a family man and Allen a carefree bachelor, the two of them still saw each other nearly every day.  In the picture that had grabbed Evelyn’s attention, the brothers posed side by side in the uniforms of their chosen trade, two handsome young men who fought fires and saved lives. Noticing his wife’s gaze, Austin could not help but wonder if she was comparing the two great loves of her life; the very first one who ushered her into womanhood and called her Eve; the latter who gave her his name, fathered her children, and chose to call her Evelyn. “It’s amazing how strongly Lucas resembles him,” she said, speaking of their second born son, reminding Austin of how awful a chore it had been to tell his kids that their uncle had died.  There was a brief moment of hauntingly still silence, then Lance erupted with a wail of anguish, echoed a second later by his little brother.  Austin instantly knew that Lucas was crying more in reaction to Lance’s pain than to the sad news about Uncle Allen.  Lucas was too young to fully comprehend the nature of death yet.  He was the lucky one.“Mandy seems very nice.  What did she tell you?”Mandy was Allen’s girlfriend.  Neither of them had met her prior to the day of the funeral.  It was Mandy who found Allen’s body hideously splayed on the floor of her walk-in closet, the white carpeting already turned mostly crimson.“Nothing that explains anything,” Austin answered.  “She said he didn’t seem any different lately.  He didn’t appear to be unhappy.  He was a little withdrawn, a little quiet, but he’d been that way for as long as she’d known him.  I don’t think her shock has fully worn off yet.”“Has yours?”“I’ve spoken barely a dozen words to Allen in the last six months.  Things changed between us after the fire at Briarwood Towers.  I don’t think he ever got over it.  Hell, how are you supposed to get over something like that?”Allen had gotten within eight feet of the three children trapped in the blaze, within a few seconds of rescuing them from the merciless blaze, when a beam suddenly gave way and a large portion of the ceiling came crashing down upon them before his disbelieving eyes.  Shortly afterwards, he announced his resignation from the fire department.  Austin’s last extensive conversation with him had taken place when he dropped by to talk his brother out of the hasty decision.“Why don’t you just take a long vacation, take some time to get your head together.  You’re great at your job, Allen.  The rest of us all look up to you.  You’re a real live hero, man, and there’s far too few of those.  You did everything you could to save those kids.  There just wasn’t enough time to get to them.  You more than anyone knows the nature of the work we do.  Sometimes the fire gets too big of a head start.  Sometimes the fire wins.”“Don’t lecture me with my own words, little brother.  I know what I’m doing.  I know why I need to do it.  I’m no hero.  I’ve done nothing to warrant being anybody’s role model.”  Allen then lifted the bottle of vodka he was holding up to his mouth, taking a long swig.  “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.  Didn’t you learn your lesson after drinking yourself out of college?”“Never you mind what I learned,” Allen spewed.  “That’s your damn problem.  Always minding what I do, imitating what I’ve experienced instead of looking for your own way to live.”“I’d almost forgotten how stupid alcohol makes you.  First comes the self-pity, then the lashing out at people who love you and have your best interests at heart.”“Let’s not change the subject.  We were talking about you.  About how you’ve spent your whole life snacking off of my leftovers.  You had good grades in school.  You could have gone to college, become whatever it is you wanted to be.  But instead you followed me into the fire department, just as you’ve always followed behind me.  You’ve never made your own choices.  You’ve never even bothered to search for your own way.  You just hitched onto the tail end of mine.”“If that’s how you feel, that’s how you feel,” Austin said, hearing the quaver of hurt in his voice, unable to control it.  “How come you never told me you felt this way about me before?  You might have spoken your mind about it a lot sooner.” “Why?  To make you stop following me like a puppy dog?  Sure, I could have swatted you on the nose and sent you scurrying away.  But I didn’t want to embarrass you and make you feel like shit.  I kept waiting for you to outgrow it, to finally step out of my shadow and become your own person.  I figured that had to happen eventually.  But it didn’t.  You’ve been content being the poor man’s version of me.”“Fuck you, Allen.  I came here to give you my support.  I came because you’re my brother.  I love you, and I don’t want you to screw up your life.  The bottle has always made you an asshole.  Don’t put yourself through that hell again.  Don’t put your family through it again.  What happened in that building was a terrible thing.  That fire claimed three innocent lives.  Don’t let it destroy yours as well.  Putting that bottle to your mouth is no different that putting a gun barrel to you head.  It’s only a little slower.”“Before you start acting holier than thou, make sure you have your facts straight,” Allen said.  “I didn’t start drinking again because of those kids dying.  If you must know, I started back drinking more than a month ago.”“What?”“I was drinking the night before the fire.  And I drank earlier that morning too.  I wasn’t completely sober when I was trying to get to those kids.  I was doing my job as well as I could do it under the circumstances, and maybe they would have died on me no matter what.  But there’s no way for me to know for sure.  What I do know is that I won’t ever be able to put on my uniform again without the question coming to mind.  So I won’t be putting it on any more.  I want that chapter of my life behind me for good.  You can have my share of the superhero business.”“I think you’re being a fool,” Austin said, for he was too stunned to say much of anything else.“You going to judge me, little brother?  Well if you are, at least have the courtesy to judge yourself first.  Figure out why you’ve spent your life copycatting me.  Figure out just what you’re so insecure about.  Why is it that you can’t take a road unless it already has my footprints on it?  Hell, you even married one of my castoffs.”The punch that Austin threw with perfect form landed flush on his brother’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.  Allen looked up in a daze as the liquor bottle by his side emptied its contents and Austin walked out of the apartment.Austin never revealed in full to Evelyn the specifics of the argument.  It was the closest thing to a secret that he had kept from her since the days of not revealing his desire while she was dating his brother.  One week later Allen apologized for his behavior, laying the blame on drunkenness and bad timing.  True to his word, he did not return to work.  From that point on he made his presence increasingly scarce, as if hoping that absence would make the heart grow amnesia.  Austin was convinced that he continued to drink, but had no idea what if anything could be done about it.Six months passed quietly by.  Then one day Austin received a phone call from his father.  His obviously distraught mother could be heard in the background.  A woman named Mandy had just contacted them.  She said that Allen had been living with her.  She said that earlier that day she had gone out for half an hour to do some shopping.  In the time that she was gone, Allen stepped into a closet with a loaded pistol and shot himself in the head.A few days later, Austin found himself staring at a photograph in his old bedroom.  It depicted two boys whose lives were ahead of them, siblings often likened to peas in a pod, the younger idolizing the elder.  For as far back as he could remember, Austin had wanted to be just like his big brother.  He emulated Allen’s actions, mimicked his choices.  Allen served as a dependable roadmap, showing a shy child how to be a brave boy, an easily intimidated youth how to become a courageous man.  Yet that map had led to this strange and awful place, so far away from the aura of optimism exuded from Allen’s eyes in the childhood snapshot.Physically, there was no mistaking Austin and Allen for anything but brothers.  They shared the penetrating eyes of their father, the full lips of their mother, and possessed identical sets of dimples.  But when Austin compared the photo of he and Allen as boys to the one of them as men, he saw that their resemblance to one another was stronger in youth.  This he attributed to a small change in Allen’s features that had not yet occurred at the time of the earlier picture.  The small scar just off to the side of his left eye had been earned when he was fifteen years old.  On that long past but most memorable night, Austin made the regrettable mistake of succumbing to curiosity and examining their father’s prized collection of baseball memorabilia.  He had been told time and time again that the items were for display purposes only, but examining the mythical objects of sports lore up close seemed harmless enough, a victimless act of rebellion. Less than fifteen minutes after their father arrived home that evening, he summoned his sons to the study.  In his hand was the top half of a uniform autographed by the great Lou Brock.  The jelly stain unknowingly left behind on the collar stood out blatantly to the boys as they stepped timidly forward.“Which one of you did this?”“I-I-I…” Austin took a moment to catch his breath.  He had been a witness to his father’s hairpin trigger temper often enough to have a fair idea what was in store for him.  The stutter that he was still years away from overcoming was always at its worst in the unforgiving presence of his father.“It was me, Dad.”For a second Austin thought that he had managed to speak without opening his mouth or willing the words to be uttered.  But in the next second he grasped that it was actually Allen who had confessed, even though he was guiltless.      “Boy, how many times have I told you that these are not toys?”“Many times.”The backhanded slap that followed rivaled the swiftness of a cobra’s strike.  It knocked Allen to the floor, and because of the ring on their father’s finger, it inadvertently drew blood.“Then you should know better, shouldn’t you?”“Yes sir,” Allen answered.His lesson taught, their father walked out of the room, dropping a handkerchief on the floor as parting gift.  Austin retrieved it and handed it to his brother, who dabbed at the fresh wound that would mark him for life.“Thanks,” Austin said.“Don’t sweat it.  That’s what big brothers are for.”As grateful as he was for Allen’s playing the part of sacrificial lamb, Austin did not fully understand why his brother had volunteered for undeserved punishment.  Now these many years later, he could not fathom the pain his brother must have been in over the past several months, perhaps much longer.  Nor could he make sense of Allen’s decision to take his own life rather than waiting for better days to come.  Then again, his brother had never been particularly patient.Tears began to fall onto the picture frame in Austin’s hand.  His father and brother always said that tears were a sign of weakness.  But what did either of them know?  One had no idea how to be a father.  The other quit on things when they got too tough.  These had been Austin’s shining examples of manhood. Austin let his tears flow, because crying at least gave him temporary respite from trying to figure out what had gone so tragically wrong.  He had grown uncertain of all things, except for the leaden realization that there would be no more footsteps for him to follow throughout life.  Only open road.

Just because...

A beautiful, and heartbreaking, remembrance of Prince: His original studio recording of Nothing Compares 2 U, set to footage of Prince & the Revolution rehearsing in the summer of 1984 when the song was recorded. https://t.co/5n6K0VFRuA

WHO CARES WHO GETS CREDIT FOR PROGRESS?

In recent days it appears that the anti-gun movement in America has gained significant traction. Much of the credit is going to classmates of murdered students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL. Those kids are receiving plenty of press and have proven adept at utilizing it along with social media to get their message out. How far it will go remains to be seen. So long as Trump is in the White House and we have a GOP dominated congress with various allegiances to NRA campaign funding, I'm not especially hopeful no matter how many magazine covers those well spoken, well meaning kids end up on. But this too shall pass. Fast forward to 2020 and if both the presidency and congress look a lot different than the current dumpster fire, perhaps meaningful action will finally be taken.

Not that I'll be holding my breath. Somehow Sandy Hook wasn't the ultimate game changer, and the victims there were practically babies. Go back further to when beloved Republican icon Ronald Reagan was shot. That got us the Brady Bill and that's about it. No matter how good these Marjory Stoneman Douglas HS kids are on camera, it doesn't mean that their outrage will mean much more than their personal allotments of 15 minutes of fame.

With that said, I'm all for supporting the movement for increased gun regulations while it at least temporarily has a head of steam. I'm not alone in lending support, just as I wasn't alone pre Sandy Hook when writing with great exasperation about why guns seem to have been afforded more of a right to flourish than people. Yet I've noticed something troubling in my twitter feed. Popping up every so often will be a gripe about the attention these kids are getting. I'm not referring to gun owning conservative Republicans who have the words of the 2nd Amendment stitched on their pillow cases. I'm talking about liberal leaning likely Democrats who agree that laws must be enacted to strengthen gun regulations and save lives. They too want to loosen the NRA's vise grip on our national conscience. But they're a little ticked off that this particular set of kids is receiving so much attention for keeping the gun conversation spotlighted rather than certain predecessors whom they feel were snubbed.

This is not a helpful point of view. Envy is not a good look. Who cares who gets credit for progress so long as progress is made? It doesn't matter which particular group of activists spurred on by which tragedy ends up with the most appearances on CNN and MSNBC. So long as something FINALLY happens to bring about change for the better, it's a well earned victory for humanity. Long before the #MeToo movement started popping after certain high profile women spoke up against certain high profile men, there were women who spoke up who failed to earn a hashtag for the effort. What ultimately matters is that the NEXT woman who speaks up, and not necessarily one with a high profile but perhaps your neighbor or perhaps even you, will be more likely to be taken seriously as result of heightened awareness. The Snowball Effect requires a great deal of rolling before what started out small enough to hold in one hand ends up the size of a boulder. So long as momentum is maintained, eventually it becomes too large and weighty to ignore.

Outrage over slowness to arrest the killer of Trayvon Martin. Unrest in Ferguson, MO over the killing of Mike Brown. People declaring that we CAN'T BREATHE when justice is choked out of us in wake of the murder of Eric Garner. Citizens of Baltimore, MD declaring enough is enough after the killing of Freddie Gray. The toppling of confederate statues after so many years accepting their presence along with that traitorous Dukes of Hazard flag. I could easily go on with example after example of matters coming to a boil. Regardless of the varying degrees of results achieved, they can all be seen as watershed moments for a righteous cause. An individual may be moved to more tears of outrage in certain cases than others. Perhaps you wanted the event that struck closest to your home to be the most notable game changer. Jordan Davis murdered by Michael Dunn over "loud music" should have been the tipping point. Valid stance. Renisha McBride shot dead on Theodore Wafer's porch hoping to get assistance after a car crash should have been the start of the revolution. I hear you. How about the sad case of Aiyana Jones? Shouldn't a death that senseless have resulted in urgent willingness to make things make greater sense?

Those tragedies all made splashes. Some resulted in slogans. Collectively they launched an organization/mindset called Black Lives Matter. Politicians have and will continue to utilize whichever one seems most likely to move the needle in their favor. The people will continue to #Resist the corrupt powers that be, and those in power will resist our push for change. Every so often circumstances will align in a way that yields tangible results. Once upon a time the culmination of a very long fight for equality was The Civil Rights Act of 1964. Perhaps The Gun Control Act of 2020 is a reachable star. And if it is, maybe for a variety of reasons more credit will go to white high school kids Parkland, FL than will go to victims of gang violence in Chicago, IL.

But you know what? If The Gun Control Act of 2020 ends up an actual thing that comes to fruition, mattering most won't be who gets how great a share of credit for it. What will matter is fewer guns on the streets of Chicago and other inner cities. Fewer bullets hitting intended targets as well as unfortunate souls who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What will matter is fewer mass shootings in high schools and elementary schools and concerts and wherever else they happen. Shootings won't be stamped out completely. Guns bought legally today will be purchased illegally tomorrow, and some of them will be obtained by madmen with evil intent. We can't eliminate senseless violence because we can't eradicate evil. What we can do is make the sudden loss of multiple lives more difficult to be managed by a lone individual with deranged mind plus an arsenal of weaponry. What we can do is act like we give a shit.

Once we do, if we ever do, I won't give credit to any one activist, or politician, or group of kids, or specific march, or particular hashtag. I'll credit everybody who stood up to evil and those who profit from it and said NO MORE. Perhaps it's time to accept that the days of lone heroes/martyrs such as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. or Malcolm X receiving the lion's share of credit for social progress are behind us. Yes, there will be certain spokespeople with greater face and name recognition than the rest. It could be a football player who puts himself in the line of fire. Or someone paid to talk on TV about one thing who feels compelled to use the platform to speak in their social media feed on another. Maybe a skinny black guy in a blue vest. Perhaps a high school girl with a buzz cut. No matter. In this new age we find ourselves in, what truly heals the world is our collective voice.

FIGHT THE POWER

Love this one pic.twitter.com/XRI7SYRTee— Janet Jones (@janetjones3001) March 24, 2018

11-year old Naomi Wadler: "I am here to acknowledge and represent the African-American girls whose stories don't make the front page of every national newspaper, whose stories don't lead on the evening news." #MarchForOurLives (via CBS) pic.twitter.com/o6UkEuxemd— Kyle Griffin (@kylegriffin1) March 24, 2018

Bookish Tweets and Book Reviews

I've been reading books again, it's like being online but without getting nauseous from anger every 2-3 minutes.— Sean Thomason (@TheThomason) January 28, 2018

Which author do you recommend to your friends the most?— goodreads (@goodreads) January 27, 2018

There are certain books I'd recommend to just about everyone even if not necessarily every book by that author.. Read The World According to Garp. Read Geek Love. Read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Read Love in the Time of Cholera.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 27, 2018

Trying to decide which author I'd recommend to a random unknown person whom I know nothing about. If I know somebody I'd have have an idea what type of books would be most likely to appeal to them. Who would be safest choice to cover all types of book fans? Maybe Pat Conroy.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 27, 2018

#AmReading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. Another notch in my belt of Pulitzer Prize winning novels read. A Line A Day: Pulitzer Prize Winners https://t.co/PbgXuvvqEI pic.twitter.com/nWyldYzqKw— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) February 2, 2018

The four stages of writing...#writerslife #amwriting pic.twitter.com/bMwHArbK3h— Morgan Wright (@byMorganWright) January 12, 2018

"Everybody who writes is interested in living inside themselves in order to tell what is inside themselves…”https://t.co/e0roa6kTUt#amwriting #writing #writinglife— Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) January 18, 2018

Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing.
AUGUST WILSON#amwriting #drama #writing pic.twitter.com/8xzQtASj6e— Jon Winokur (@AdviceToWriters) January 24, 2018

The thing that defines a writer is that the writer writers. #writerslife #amwriting pic.twitter.com/oRDJpCqDYv— Morgan Wright (@byMorganWright) February 1, 2018

A Line A Day: Writer Defined https://t.co/21VPOr3z1Z pic.twitter.com/3XbnQFhGbT— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) February 1, 2018

Take refuge in these novels about love for single people on Valentine's Day: https://t.co/ptUUrTK3vy pic.twitter.com/x9N2L8E6yH— Book Riot (@BookRiot) January 22, 2018

Gotta love love stories - https://t.co/umiOm4Vw1d Am I right? https://t.co/Re66Zd4Gj6 https://t.co/KwZv1kgFJD— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 30, 2018

Favorite this. I'll start my thread on fiction/non-fiction books on the Caribbean here.— Morally Corrupt Faye Resnick (@VivaciousWritin) September 23, 2017

Can serialized fiction make a comeback? This company is betting on ithttps://t.co/NaB93HbfZf— Simon Owens (@simonowens) January 24, 2018

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS: A Novella Serialized & Now for the First Time Ever as a Thread (Prologue) https://t.co/L9x4Ey13e8 My story begins before its beginning, with a prologue— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) December 28, 2017

Because of a packing mishap, I had to buy a copy of my own book in the airport & the cashier said "you know if this book is any good?" & I was gonna make a joke like "YEAH IT'S NOT BAD SUSAN BUT I HEAR THE AUTHOR IS A REAL JERK" but then I realized that would only be funny to me— Hanif Abdurraqib (@NifMuhammad) January 31, 2018

The word of the day is... pic.twitter.com/Go7IuMuw1s— goodreads (@goodreads) January 9, 2018

Anyway, here’s to the new year, you writers, you readers, you silly others. pic.twitter.com/HUwDCionYp— Lauren Groff (@legroff) January 1, 2018

pic.twitter.com/HnhpIXTrqp— Effin' Birds (@EffinBirds) December 30, 2017

Posting this quote from John Waters every year is my only holiday tradition. pic.twitter.com/bw33udtWKs— Liberty

XFL REVISITED

There are highly anticipated remakes/re-imaginings (for example, Bladerunner 2049) and then there's Vince McMahon recycling an idea that flopped the first time around with an added side of MAGA family values. Are you ready for some XFL football?!!  No? Well, I can't say that I blame you. Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised the second time out, but I wouldn't bet much more than a wooden nickel on it.



In case you're too young to remember the original XFL, or have worked really hard on forgetting it over the past couple decades, here's a refresher course - REMEMBER THE XFL?

But times have changed of course, since that is precisely what times are built to do. The upcoming XFL will be vastly different from the original version according to P.T. Barnum, I mean, Vince McMahon.

Vince McMahon is relaunching the XFL, promising a "shorter, faster-paced, family-friendly, and easier to understand" re-imagining of football. pic.twitter.com/0QCqcdjoRO— SportsCenter (@SportsCenter) January 25, 2018

Just football.

No politics. No social issues. #XFL2020— XFL Football (@realXFLfootball) January 26, 2018

8 teams.
40 man rosters.
10 game season.
4 team semi-finals
1 championship game#XFL #XFL2020 pic.twitter.com/Au7bVyOJFo— #XFL2020 (@ItsXFL2020) January 25, 2018

Vince says he wants no players with any sort of criminal record. Even if you had a DUI, you will not be welcome to play in the XFL. #xfl2020— Jason Solomon (@solomonster) January 25, 2018

BREAKING: @VinceMcMahon’s new league will be called the XFL. Will start in Jan. 2020, have eight teams, players required to stand for National Anthem & Johnny Manziel is NOT eligible to play https://t.co/KEJA6Q4fua— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) January 25, 2018

When Johnny Manziel thought he could play in the XFL ... pic.twitter.com/ofHNyOdo2T— Steven R. Walker (@Steve_R_Walker) January 25, 2018

#XFL https://t.co/2M9MLZH1BP Because we just can't get enough football - https://t.co/i4nmXz5UfN https://t.co/1OsxxNvapL— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 25, 2018

The new XFL will be a "single entity sports league"--meaning the league will own everything, including the teams. This will have many ramifications for how the league operates and how it employs players. I explain in a new @theMMQB article: https://t.co/bZhD3NtMFu pic.twitter.com/N1sOfTwZ4J— Michael McCann (@McCannSportsLaw) January 26, 2018

As MINIMAL qualification to be a XFL team you should play and defeat the Browns in an entry test game— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 25, 2018

Colin Kaepernick said he's ready to go back to kneeling for the anthem so maybe, if he isn't blackballed for some other equally stupid reason, the XFL can become a home for him. Guessing he's not interested though. https://t.co/EbPiEKzhKn— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 25, 2018

Do pro wrestlers kneel for the anthem before pretending to fight each other or does Vince not make them do that?— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 25, 2018

Vince McMahon on his new football league requiring players to stand during the National Anthem: "It's a time honored tradition to stand."— Darren Rovell (@darrenrovell) January 25, 2018

Vince McMahon built his fortune on death, rampant steroid abuse (including his own), grotesque sexism, and racist minstrelsy. But by all means: stand for that flag. https://t.co/MUxpEoFN80— Dave Zirin (@EdgeofSports) January 25, 2018

Interesting that Vince McMahon once thought his XFL would do well b/c it was designed to be sexier & more violent than NFL. Flash forward to older Vince and he thinks his league will do well b/c it's more family friendly. May as well be called GOPFL.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

Apparently his WWE has been trending in a more PG direction for years. News to me since I haven't watched that kind of stuff for ages. I guess WWE is no longer Playboy-lite with violence added to mix.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

XFL is billed to be safer than NFL. Assuming it's still TACKLE football I'm curious to see how that will be the case. Maybe he has patent on new helmet technology that will eliminate neck injuries and concussions. Probably not though.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

A Man's Game: https://t.co/VHis2ESRED #NFL #XFL? https://t.co/sPvaiUlIHL— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 27, 2018

Physics remains physics. Big fast dudes repeatedly running into each other is going to result in injuries. But being gluttons for the punishment of others we probably wouldn't watch professional flag football or 2-hand touch.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

XFL supposedly will avoid any interference by politics and/or social issues as if life politely asks for permission to interrupt the serious business of grown men playing ball for a living. Maybe they should use robots to deter the unsavory human impulse to express one's self.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

Vince McMahon's wife works for Trump. So while the XFL "won't be political" that is simply coded language for it won't tolerate expression of liberal leaning beliefs. Yesterday's He Hate Me is tomorrow's MAGA.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

XFL will probably do about as well in its 2nd go round as Trump has done in his go round at the presidency. Okay, maybe not quite that god awful. But it's not likely to be pretty if the main attraction is "Zero DUI's on the field!!!".— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 25, 2018

It’s the “family friendly” part that’s truly hilarious. I really want to know what “family-friendly football” looks like. Does it drive a minivan? https://t.co/ZaF84W4Pf9— Jemele Hill (@jemelehill) January 26, 2018

NFL ratings have been going down for years because the games don't remind people enough of episodes of The Waltons. https://t.co/MJFKgPWpLF— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

XFL is basically an NFL for Trump supporters, its creation is a naked attempt at monetising a divided America | Via Independent https://t.co/lUSGDHQKAU— SafetyPin-Daily (@SafetyPinDaily) January 26, 2018

I’m legitimately concerned the XFL is going to be used as a political device and if that doesn’t tell you where we are at in 2018...— Hardwood Paroxysm (@HPbasketball) January 26, 2018

I don't watch sports to see exhibitions of civil disobedience. I know they're paid to play, not protest. Every job has restrictions on free speech with the exception of self employment. But hiding from real life is an exercise in futility. Life happens and must be faced head on.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

A Line A Day: When Sports and Social Issues Collide https://t.co/oasE0oLm8U— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

XFL's "criminality" ban and implied anti-protest rule are definitely not about race, no sir. https://t.co/NU3bmFb91Y pic.twitter.com/l3rGIvjKCt— Deadspin (@Deadspin) January 26, 2018

Criminality ban doesn't mean anti-black. Kinda like how blacks are no more like monkeys than whites. Granted, we know there are bigots who equate black people to both categories. I don't take the bait and cry racism even if I suspect racist motivation. H&M & Vince don't bother me https://t.co/1i62EAbXdM— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

At least one guy doesn't think that the XFL will actually come back. That would be the writer of this piece.

The new XFL is dumb as hell but thank God it's not actually real: https://t.co/2DWotiN9oP pic.twitter.com/5seWMmK1IN— Deadspin (@Deadspin) January 26, 2018

USFL comeback on deck?— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 26, 2018

There is SO MUCH going on in the world in 2018, SO MANY diversions, distractions and diverse forms of entertainment vying for our limited attention spans. 2020 will look no different except that there will be even more going on all at the same time, even if much of it is in the same place, that being the smart phone in the palm of your hand. So the XFL has a very steep uphill climb to become a thing that actually sticks around for a few years.  The task ahead of Vince McMahon will be almost as difficult as this one...

No idea what this game is called, but whoever made it, is the devil. pic.twitter.com/Ec98aGXSDD— Steve Noah (@Steve_OS) January 24, 2018

FAIR TRADE

Below is the first one of my short stories to ever be published. The time feels right to present it here at A LINE A DAY as my first #ShortStorySunday entry of 2018. Now that so many of my tales have been presented here, I'll need to write some new ones soon to avoid running out of material. I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to let me know if you do since writers are fueled by compliments. 

Questionable Attire

woke up this morning shocked and embarrassed by this photo. i’m deeply offended and will not be working with @hm anymore... pic.twitter.com/P3023iYzAb— The Weeknd (@theweeknd) January 8, 2018

I believe little kids of all races/ethnic groups should be able to be referred to as "little monkey" with the same amount of (zero) controversy. I don't lose it over controversies like the H&M ad b/c all I see is a black boy with a jungle theme sweatshirt, not automatic insult.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Obviously once historical context is considered, I get the whole "blacks were insultingly called monkeys/apes/etc. by racist whites for YEARS" thing. And of course there are bigots who continue to do it to this day. H&M should have known this & acted accordingly. Swap kids/shirts— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

But that's merely putting a band-aid on a direct hit gun wound. Rather than H&M and other advertisers having to tip toe over which kid it's ok to call a little monkey & which one will result in angry think pieces, I'd love for kids to just be seen as differently shaded kids.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

People should be able to comfortably refer to any kid they want as their little monkey if that kid happens to spend a bunch of time hanging from jungle gyms at the park. It's a standard operating procedure childhood activity with no racial distinctions. Just go to any park & see.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

That's my own personal version of MLK's Dream. I'm old enough to remember when Howard Cosell got himself in big trouble describing Alvin Garrett. I never believed that Cosell had malicious intent & I'm not about to yell at H&M either.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Cosell's remark was a slip of the tongue that couldn't be retracted once released in spur of moment. H&M had the benefit of all the time in the world to decide which kids would pose with which messages on which hoodies. They did what they did anyway. I wonder why. On purpose?— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

If on purpose: Why? To insult every single potential black purchaser because they only see money as green when handed to them by white people? Because across the board of H&M ad reviewers they're legitimately that clueless? Or to stir the pot & draw extra attention to themselves?— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

I don't know. I don't even much care, really. I remain capable of seeing a black kid reading a book & not thinking of monkeys, and of seeing a white kid hanging from a branch & thinking "look at that 'little non-literal monkey' having a blast". No insult intended towards either kid.


 In this case I mostly see the point of those who are pissed at the ad because it's too hard to believe H&M didn't know better, that they didn't realize the nerves that would be hit. Certainly there are a fair number of people who see these things before someone presses send for it to go live. Not a single person at H&M voiced concern over how the photo would be perceived, particularly in this day and age, with amateur self-appointed PC police carefully scanning social media for any misstep? They had to know people would take offense and raise a fuss over this. Either they didn't care (highly unlikely) or they were courting the obvious response it would elicit. Bad publicity is better than no publicity? Like I said, I don't pretend to know H&M's motives nor do I much care. It's all too deju vu. I've seen this movie quite a few times before. The end is not going to take me by surprise AT ALL.

Every year there seems to be at least a handful of upset reactions to ads that are viewed as racial insults rather than some company simply trying to sell a product. Sometimes I see the anger as valid but often I view it as overreaction that says more about person than advertiser— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Remember WAY over the top reactions to the ad (Gap, I think) with a bunch of kids in a row, and one girl (white) happened to have an arm leaned on head of another girl (black), so Twitter lost its mind? Totally innocent pose made even more so when we learned the girls are sisters— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

I didn't think piece on that one, merely SMH rigorously at why anyone would take offense. But I did jot some musings down about the Vogue cover controversy https://t.co/DA2eU78iUj & the Essence cover controversy https://t.co/xlluIN7K51 back in the day.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

And let us not forget the "Re-Civilize Yourself" Nivea ad that pissed folks off. Referenced it towards end of this post at A Line a Day - "Here I Am...OR...Hair I Am" https://t.co/KLrpPl6L0g— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Buy your kid a t-shirt with whatever message on it u want. If u can think of something cooler than what you see being offered, ordering custom designed t-shirts is extremely easy with no shortage of options. Put "my kid is a king" or "Oprah 2020" or whatever the hell u want on it— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Here's a suggestion - Here's another.

When a clothing advertisement legitimately pisses me off because it seems aimed to racially alienate, I'll let you know. For now my focus is on the bigots that voters let into the White House, & on those who who influence decision making process from right outside the door.— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

And now for the "ending" that could be seen coming a mile away...

H&M apologizes for 'Coolest Monkey' sweatshirt ad featuring black child https://t.co/RIWlqHXR4O #FoxNews— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Amazes me how quickly the power of social media can make a company apologize and plead for mercy, yet when it came to getting the right person elected president a year ago, it was powerless. Minor accomplishments got folks puffing out chests while the achievements that most matter stay undone.

Why that Winona Ryder shampoo commercial stirred up such a frenzy: https://t.co/T6DQreyMUk pic.twitter.com/PZXg9oz3mJ— Slate (@Slate) January 8, 2018

Y'all really need to stop overthinking these ads. The purpose of ALL of them if to get people to buy their sh*t. That's it. https://t.co/S1oQREs0WN— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 8, 2018

Brands have figured a new marketing strategy. Outraging the black community by being insensitive/controversial so we can speak about it, and make them trend... it keeps happening. Especially cos they know no one really stops buying, the 'boycotts' all end online. https://t.co/cjZNuOfnpc— your daddy (@iEatGreymatter) January 8, 2018

Bingo! https://t.co/YvsV97XUGS— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 9, 2018

I am WAY more disturbed by that Logan Paul idiot than I am by H&M. I'm the father of an 11 year old. She knows she's no monkey & kid in coolest monkey in jungle hoodie wouldn't bother her at all. She loved Logan Paul's videos. That shit legit influences her & her peers. Asshole!— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 11, 2018

Mother of #HM hoodie model responds to backlash, tells us to 'get over it' https://t.co/BBlEJwbheD pic.twitter.com/bl1UF3mzLT— Blavity (@Blavity) January 10, 2018

South African protesters trashed H&M stores in response to a 'racist' ad pic.twitter.com/tUTV40H1M8— NowThis (@nowthisnews) January 13, 2018

All of the H&M t-shirt backlash reminds me of that time I was inspired to write about a FASHION STATEMENT https://t.co/nR4qwELLul— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 9, 2018

Watch Weekend Update: Eddie Murphy on the First Black Astronaut from Saturday Night Live on https://t.co/3cYfnP8EuG — https://t.co/uvmn2sC91T— Roy L. Pickering Jr. (@AuthorofPatches) January 11, 2018